


A Study in Scarlet Blood

by queen_kumquat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BtVS AU - Freeform, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_kumquat/pseuds/queen_kumquat
Summary: What if Angel had been captured by the British Watchers' Council shortly after his curse?





	

A Study in Scarlet Blood

He'd always been an observant man, but now, what with trying to establish rhyme or reason for Drusilla's whims, while simultaneously working to annoy Angelus as little as possible, William practised that skill obsessively. He learnt fast as a fledgling vampire; spotted when the blood on his sire's cuffs was fresh, versus the colour it was when a day old, or when the shade and scent betrayed that it was from a non-human species – that was important, as it meant Angelus would be in a foul mood, and thus likely aiming to be taking it out on _him_.

He noticed the small twitches at the corners of Drusilla's mouth which told when she knew what she was saying and understood that she was playing with reality, as opposed to her two types of impassive face; one where the world was having no impact on her, the other where she was enjoying the wickedness of lying. It was a tiny difference between the two, much more subtle than the variation in Angelus's various deadpan bluffs, but the ability to screw them both over in games of poker - money maketh power, even in nests of vampires - kept him interested in the potential possibilities of a keen, practised mind. He had eternity, after all. William started playing the violin again, partly because it soothed Drusilla, partly because classical music coming out of his old fiddle wound Angelus up no end, and, on the whole, William liked attention from his sire more than no attention, now he could rival him in strength, fighting dirty, and with his predictions giving him enough edge to avoid serious harm. After twenty years or so, he was good enough at the violin that he didn't need to work at it any more.

William kept his hair slightly long, like his sire's, even after it went out of fashion. Darla had disappeared before the first War, and the trio became even more tightly knit over the next thirty years. And then the curse, old Frau H____ lashing out with a gypsy force that even Watchers had assumed was myth. Angelus and his soul - _Angel_ \- had disappeared for a few years, and William, like a furious, spurned, younger brother, had wreaked havoc across Europe. 

Until the Sixties, when William's experiment with bleach-blond hair and black leather was stopped rudely short by being kidnapped by some minions and dumped in a back room of what he figured must have been a Government office building, somewhere in central London. The institutional smell of green paint wasn’t quite hidden by all the carved wood panelling. The door opened and William stumbled to his feet. 

He had never expected to see that face again. 

Angelus. 

What the hell? The body was fuller, somehow; the smug bastard even more full of himself. Shorter hair, a waistcoat, and the suit; now fitted pinstripe not louche velvet, but still clearly Angelus. Could Angel, now, be a mere namby-pamby office worker? No. Too much confidence.

"I go by my original surname, now," Angel drawled. Was he Angelus, again? After a moment where William refused to give him the satisfaction of asking what that name had been, probably Murphy or O'Donahue, - who cared - his sire told him. "I adopted the name of the Kalderash gypsy family as my new surname, anglicised of course. Call me: Mycroft Holmes."

 _Mycroft_? William burst out laughing at the pompous prick. _Mycroft_? And _Holmes_?

"I'll thank you, William, to remember that I'm now an official in Her Majesty's Government, and unusual upper-class forenames do assist in providing both memorability and,” Angel glared at William, “ _respect_ , childe mine. Though given the desirability of remaining undercover, I've implied that you are my brother, rather than a mere vampiric spawn, still sadly at the mercy of blood addiction. Still, the Council have methods for dealing with such weaknesses, so in a moment my assistants will escort you to the basement where your addiction can be resolved, let's hope for once and for all. I'll be keeping eyes on you. Yes, I really do have the entire resources of the Watchers' Council at my disposal. It’s one of those numerous small agencies of the Cabinet Office of which no-one really knows what they do. Some say I actually run the country..."

Angel, or rather now Mycroft, steepled his palms together and rested his chin on them, gazing down impassively at William, whose studded leather jacket, biker boots, ear piercings and garish hair couldn't have looked more out of place in Mycroft’s sanctum somewhere in the heart of the Establishment.

William, once a mild-mannered poet, now the famous William the Bloody, William Sherlock, Slayer of Slayers, glared at Mycroft in fury. "You're a tosser. Once a tosser, always a tosser.” He paused, then added, “Now just a tosser in an upgraded suit."

"Yes, well, I _do_ know a rather good demonic tailor, just behind Savile Row... Anyway, _Sherlock_ \- goes rather nicely with Mycroft, doesn't it? - the nice doctors down in the basement are going to fix your brain so you won't be hurting people for blood any more. God knows if that will keep you out of trouble.”

It didn't.  
Over the next forty years, the device in his head had prevented him from directly feeding, something the US military had worked on originally, and UK medicine had been added so that William – Sherlock - wasn't needing to drink blood quite so urgently any more, but yet still Sherlock came to Mycroft's attention much more than Mycroft would have liked. The younger vampire sought to alleviate the boredom of eternal life, aggravated by the tedium of having so many more years of learning than the humans all around him, by trying out every drug known to mankind - injected cocaine was a favourite - every food, every drink, all the music, all the films and later TV, and, Mycroft estimated, almost all types of crime and more types of sex than most humans had dreamt of. But after Drusilla had had to be killed, (Sherlock assumed, rightly, that Mycroft was behind that) Sherlock, who was now using that hundred years-worth of observation primarily to win poker games, had gone on a bender that would have made hellions across the galaxy blush, and Mycroft had been forced to ask the Watcher's Council for help again.

It was when Sherlock finally decided sex was boring that Mycroft started to be seriously concerned for him. He wasn't sure it was an improvement when, in between drug cocktails, Sherlock started occupying himself by outwitting the police, turning up at crime scenes, insulting all the detectives, and then correctly telling them who, how and whydunnit. Then a double bluff, where in fact Sherlock had killed someone who well deserved it, but then pinned it on an unpleasant demon who deserved it even more, which led an entire team of the Watchers' Council to argue how best to handle him. Mycroft had had to haul him in again.

"I've arranged a grand little flat on Baker Street for you. There's a lovely landlady to keep an eye on you, not sure what species she is, but she's seen it all, and won't be impressed by any tantrums of yours. I suggest you seek a flatmate."

Sherlock had moved there - the Council really hadn't given him any choice - but even Mrs Hudson, unfazed by blood in fridges, found Sherlock difficult to live with, and mainly kept to her downstairs apartment, in between brave attempts at cleaning. Potential flatmates were few and far between, and though most of a year had passed, none had yet lasted a week. Eventually, Mycroft begged a maverick contact in the Watchers' Council for help. 

"Giles? We need a new companion for young Sherlock. Human, I think, up for adventure, won't 'freak out', as I believe the young people say."

And thus it was that Lestrade, the Detective Inspector responsible for covering up demonic crimes for the Met, was persuaded to track down John Watson, ex-army but of an open-minded, questioning nature that had suggested to Giles he might make a potential Watcher, and introduce him to William Sherlock 'Holmes', that pain-in-the-arse vampire who would swan into Lestrade's crime scenes and use that century-plus of observations to deduce all sorts. And be right, especially about the problems in the CID teams' love lives. Somehow he looked taller than Lestrade, being so skinny in an impressive long coat. For some reason, that also annoyed Mycroft.

A new Watcher, Watching over the irritable chipped vampire rather than supervising a potential Slayer, might work rather well, Giles thought.

Mycroft saw John Watson, short and blond and full of fury and energy. He reminded Mycroft of how Sherlock - William , always, in the back of his mind - might have been so different if different parts of his human personality had made it into the vampire. Or, he realised guiltily, perhaps, simply if he, Angelus, had treated William differently? 

He privately nicknamed John, 'Spike'.


End file.
